Bag End
by lizziemu
Summary: it's angsty. it's short. it's m/p. and if that's not enough for you... well, FOR SHAME! and yes, i know that they both marry nice hobbit girls in the book, but that just isn't any fun, is it?


If you haven't read the books, well. that sucks. But there aren't many spoilers here. Prepare to not understand everything, though. And you really should read the books; they kick ass.  
  
We lived together under the pretense of friends, or at least as far as any of our fellow hobbits ever assumed. Truthfully, neither I nor Pippin ever made any sort of effort whatsoever to conceal the actual scale of our relationship. In fact, we were quite open with the fondness we shared for each other. But everyone, of course, dismissed it as the sort of affection that would stand between two very best friends - and seeing as how that is exactly what we were, the dismissal was actually rather appropriate. It was all the same to us; in fact, Pippin was delighted every time one of his fellow Tooks tried to introduce him to some nice pretty Hobbit girl, if only because he found it utterly hilarious. But as often as we shrugged off the matter, the truth is that they never understood how much we really did love each other.  
During our long difficult journey, there were many times I wanted nothing more than to be home, at good old Hobbiton, with nothing better to do than eat and smoke and sleep. When the quest finally drew to a close, however, I wondered how I'd be able to stand the monotony of life at the Shire. What I found to be the case, though, was a surprisingly pleasant mixture of the two. Indeed, after the scouring of the Shire, all four of us were quite content to relax in our nice quiet homes. We all had healing to do. But when the bite of grief concerning past events had eased a little, Pippin and I became restless; I don't quite remember it being the same for Sam and Frodo, but then again, I'm sure they had much more to heal than either I or Pip for that matter. Yet it wasn't hard to keep occupied. We still had our ponies, and we often set out on improvised adventures, journeying until the quiet of the Shire was appealing again. We had visitors from time to time, sometimes Legolas and Gimli, once Aragorn and Arwen, perhaps twice friends of Pippin, even once Gandalf, but always a pleasure and a sound distraction that would last for weeks at a time. And as long as we had each other, we could never be completely bored. We were companions every second of every hour of every day, and as long as I could be near him, I was happy.  
But Pippin was still a knight of Gondor, and though Aragorn honored his promise that the times he would be called to duty would be seldom, Pippin and I were nevertheless forced from each other on occasion. I remember every one of those days. He would suit up - he always kept his armor impeccably polished and his linen uniform without a single crease in it - and set out, always prompt and obedient as far as Aragorn was concerned, but always regretful to leave me behind. Those days were the worst for me; it was these times that my heart grew closest to succumbing to the darkness. Frodo and Sam and Rosie always insisted that I stay with them at Bag End, and of course I would always oblige them, happy at least a little to not be completely alone. But at Bag End, everything was just a tad too small for me; it's amazing how often I forgot how remarkable Pippin and myself had become. And it wouldn't be long before I felt a twinge in my arm, which would grow into an ache, which would result in the horrible and familiar numbness that never failed to break my spirit.  
The days during those instances have always been blurry, but I can remember Frodo and Sam always tended me as best they could, as I lay stricken in bed. And then finally on some wonderful day the door would swing open, and there he'd be standing, looking lean and haggard, often times worse for wear, but always with the same wry grin on his face, and the darkness would lift away instantly. And then life would go back to normal, or at least as normal as it can get for a pair of warrior hobbits constantly doing something. We painted Hobbiton red, even as we protected it with our lives. It was an unusual existence, but oh god, it was wonderful.  
Every minute I spent with Pippin was an eternity of bliss, and yet the years seemed to blur by. We said goodbye to Frodo, we welcomed what seemed to be a never-ending stream of babies from Sam and Rosie, we continued our lives contentedly. Everything was perfect.  
Then a band of renegade orcs rose in the East, a fearful number. While it was barely a threat when compared to what we'd survived so many years ago, Aragorn rose to meet it anyway. He called his legions together. I said goodbye to Pippin again, and went instantly to Bag End. Even with the distractions of the children and the good intentions of Sam and Rosie, I fell into depression even quicker than I ever had before. I know that Sam prayed fervently for a quick return of Pippin so as to cure my ever- worsening state, but his prayers didn't hold a candle to the constant desire consuming me that my Pippin be returned to me. But the days slipped by and became weeks, and I still had not seen his smile in the doorway.  
I remember the exact moment in which I finally heard Mr. Bilbo's beloved round door swing slowly open. It was late late at night; all the children were asleep. Sam must have heard it, too, for he rushed from he and Rosie's bedroom to the hall, but he was not a fast as I. I had been crippled with a dark heart for weeks, but the sound of the door opening cured me better than even kingsfoil could, and I was at the door in an instant, impatient to see the smile that I'd missed for so many days.  
But it wasn't him.  
It was Aragorn.  
Now I continue to lay in Bag End. What with Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli putting up temporary residence in Sam and Rosie's guest rooms, the short visits by Faramir and Eowyn whenever they can spare them, not to mention the usual crowd of Sam's family, the little hobbit hole is quite crowded. But they dare not move me back to my own home. There are always at least two of them at my bedside; even with that vigil, though, I could have died long ago - the only time I'd managed to get my hands around something sharp since we got the news - if not for the damned hands of the healing king and the magic of Mithrandir. Now my room is stripped of everything they think I could use as a weapon against me. I can do nothing but think. My mind festers, but two things occur to me, one thing I now understand, and one thing I do not. I do not understand how one of the heroes of the Fellowship, one who had seen and aided the destruction of the Dark Lord, could be killed in a petty uprising by a stray arrow. But I do understand now that what I once believed to be an insignificant failure to grasp the exact intensity of a relationship, was actually a completely insurmountable obliviousness to reality. For if they had ever had the faintest inkling of how much I need him - the tiniest, tiniest inkling - then they would never dare stay my hand in the most desperate of suicide attempts.  
I only wish to see him again.  
That's all. 


End file.
